Every so often
(but not for very much longer) one has a heart stopping moment when the world
seems to slip out of your grasp and chaos is come again! This morning was one of those times when I
opened my bleary eyes and saw after a moment’s pause that it was daylight.
Daylight! Bright daylight! Late!
The lurch to panicked action was, thankfully only momentary before I
realized (or at least I thought I realized) that it was the weekend and I did
not have to stagger away and make myself presentable for the pampered darlings
of the rich.
Although I sank
back onto the pillow with considerable relief, I also had a nagging doubt about
the day. In the deeply ingrained sense
of puritan denial that is a birthright of all true Britons I suspected that the
concept of the “weekend” might have been something planted in my mind by the
Central Protection System of the brain trying to protect me from the ravages of
marking. Or, more likely, it was a
cunning double-bluff from the Delayed Gratification and Associated Guilt Centre
of the brain lulling me into a false sense of security only to snigger with
delight when reality punches you in the stomach. Either way I lay in an uneasy crouch waiting
for what I accept as actuality to make a play for my emotions.
I decided it was
Saturday and even felt confident enough about it not to check the day on my
newish watch with which, I have to admit I am already bored. Although the watch is all white leather and
metal trimmings and truncated oval and digital, it doesn’t quite have that
“summer” look that I was seeking for the next few months.
However I lay in
until the demands of age and liquid dispersal demanded my movement and, as I
never fail to tell myself lying in bed until 8.30am is a lie-in of two hours
for me!
As tomorrow is
Toni’s nephew’s birthday, today was waiting for a section of The Family to
arrive to buy the youngster’s present.
This has taken the form of a Barça shirt – the new Barça shirt. This child sized scrap of material cost an
astonishing amount of money and, even more astonishingly if we had had the
version which had two adverts on the arms it would have been double the
price! For bloody adverts!
I, however, kept
my mouth shut. Where Barça is concerned
silence is golden and allows life to continue whereas . . . So the shirt was bought and a number (at
extra expense) was added to the back.
I have to admit
that the form of the number was quite stylish and elegant with a small Barça
shield emblazoned on it as well – so easily worth the money. (See above.)
The party for this
very young human is going to be held in some sort of farm building in the
country. My mind immediately sprang to
the conclusion that this location was to lessen the environmental impact of a
whole group of young humans screaming and wrecking in the same area.
I refused to go.
The only reason to
tolerate these gathering of feral egomaniacs is if you are directly related by
blood to at least a few of the participants in these occasions that remind
people of the importance of family planning.
I am not related
by blood to anyone there and I am shell-shocked enough as it is with the weight
and extent of marking which I drag around with me at the moment without
undergoing the further torture of a so-called “party” where shrieking banshees
howling their injustices to the world make Goya’s Black Paintings of witches
covens look like delicate representations of genteel vicarage garden tea
parties.
Toni’s mother
tried to persuade me to go by saying that the “party” was going to be held in a
big field and that there would be no necessity to be near the
perpetrators. I am not, however taken in
my such Jesuitical casuistry. I know
from harsh experience that any meeting of adults is only as mature as the
youngest child in the gathering.
I have sat with
responsible adults watching with spellbound wonder a small child fail to walk
properly.
The only thing that kept me
sane was watching with incredulous scientific detachment the looks of “genuine”
interest and satisfaction on the faces of the other grown-ups at this display
of uncoordinated ineptitude. I, of
course, kept a smile of innocent wonder stapled hypocritically to my face
during the whole “performance” so that no casual glance of a besotted adult
would see anything other than radiant satisfaction illuminate my countenance.
A party of a whole
collection of neophyte humans acting with the certain knowledge that they are
more important than me – not really to be countenanced!
So I have a
weekend at home reading and watching programmes on the IPad and reading the
Guardian and The Week also on the IPad.
Who could ask for
more!
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